


How The Devil Got His Dog

by BooBalooPants



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied Smut, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Sub Merle, Toxic Relationships, dom governor, eager to please merle, good dog merle, gov is bad and embraces it, manipulative governor, merle is bad but knows it, the governor is a fine looking devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooBalooPants/pseuds/BooBalooPants
Summary: Merle is 'saved' by the Governor in a few (sometimes questionable) ways.
Relationships: Merle Dixon/Caesar Martinez, Merle Dixon/Milton Mamet, Philip Blake | The Governor/Merle Dixon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a dumb ramble I wrote in a mindless hour or so. Merle pov, so some dumb prejudices abound here!  
> leave a comment if you feel like it.

88

88

Merle wasn't a good person.

He suspected, in his delirious state, that he wasn't even good enough for hell.

Then again he wasn't good for much of anything right now, because he was definitely dying.

He knew this because his vision had begun to blur at the corners, and sound was turning into an old transistor radio. Kind of like the one he'd stolen from his old man as a kid. Blasted that thing out a bedroom window for a few short but _worth-every-second_ minutes, before the old man had caught up to him. A few bruises on the back weren't nothing. 

_Worth every second._

He also knew he was dying because he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be thinking about random stuff like that. Not when his arm was leaking brilliant red and his head was jumbling up ideas with memories, then mixing them all together into some confusing shitstorm of a thought.

_Damn, but this was worse than a bad trip._

Speaking of, he'd tripped up a few times too many already, staggering across terrain that kept melting before his eyes. Then he'd dropped for the last time in something that wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

Soft...grassy. Dirt, probably.

It still scorched his skin, but it was better than firey roof tops and gravel in the mouth.

He sighed, and it was supposed to be with relief, but he was choking instead.

_Oh shit..._

He rolled onto his side, and the pain was still dizzying but he was already on the ground, so it didn't matter so much anymore.

_Haha. A win, at last?_

The heat spread across his skin (or was that just all the blood, now?), as he attempted to open his eyes again.

_Oh yeah, but they were already open, weren't they?_

There was that buzzing sound again. A bit clearer though, like the radio had finally caught a decent signal.

“...is he dead?” said a voice. 

Merle wondered if he was hearing things.

“...no,” he answered, but it was more like one of those choking sounds. Something was irritating his arm, then he remembered the hand thing again.

_Oh yeah._

“Jesus, he's _alive_.”

Another voice, but closer. He tried to open his eyes once more, and his arm burned as the ground moved beneath him.

“...urgh... _shit, shit_...”

“Easy, there,” that voice again.

Wasn't anyone he knew, or a long-gone relative calling down from a heavenly place (hahah, _as if_ ), but it vibrated, pretty close by. Kinda deep.

“...uh...”

That was lame. He needed to do better.

“... _shit_ ,” _slightly_ better.

“Get some more water,” that deeper voice was getting clearer, though.

Funny, the ground wasn't there anymore, either.

“...the hell?” he said. 

And then a laugh, edged with relief.

“Oh, this one's a fighter, ain't he?”

88

  
Merle opened his eyes.

His skin wasn't on fire anymore. Had to be a plus.

Even better, he could _see_. But everything was dark outlines; a chair, a bed, and some figure walking around, as if they were supposed to be there...

“ _Fuck-_ ” and Merle sprung upright, arms lunging, ready to attack it. Because what else was he supposed to do?

He got halfway across the room before there were stars scattering his vision and his head was meeting the floor. But at least he'd pulled a scream out of the mystery figure.

_Worth it._

“You feelin' a little less hostile?”

That voice again, however many hours or days later. 

Merle turned his head, practising a scowl he reserved for everyone except the baby brother.

“...screw you.”

“That's not very nice.”

The voice belonged to a suspicious face.

It was suspicious because the hair was too neat and the smile was reassuring. Merle didn't trust that sort of face in the normal world, never mind the _world-gone-to-shit_ version.

“...'m not very nice,”

Shit, that was supposed to sound threatening, but his voice was slurred and his vision was still randomly failing him. It was getting annoying now.

“You got a touch of heatstroke out there,” the suspicious face said, like he'd read his mind. “Besides everything else that happened to yer...”

Oh, he was staring at his arm.

Merle clenched his jaw, remembering everything all at once.

“...fuck.”

“Lucky we found yer when we did. Reckon you'll heal up nicely here.”

Merle turned his head away. He wasn't upset, damn it, he _wasn't._

That'd be way too easy.

“I'm Philip, but folk here like t' call me the Governor,” the face said. As if Merle cared. “You gonna tell me your name?”

Merle closed his eyes.

“Screw you.”

88

“Don't play nice with others, do yer?”

Merle sneered, because it was difficult to do much else when you were pinned to the ground, subdued by three guys all at once.

Took all three of them to do it, though.

_Hah, what a joke._

“That's somethin' we got to work on, I reckon.”

“...they started it, Gov'nor...” Merle managed, around a bloodied spit.

Oh, they'd gotten a couple of punches in, too.

The Governor shook his head, like the disappointed father Merle had never known. Something to make his stomach twist, and imagine what that was like.

“Now c'mon, Merle. You know that just ain't true.”

He raised a signalling hand, and a weight lifted, granting Merle's body some relief.

He rolled onto his back with a gasp, and glared up at some nameless faces.

“ _Jackasses_ ,” he said.

“Looks like we need some kinda outlet for you,” the Governor's smile was pensive, as if he already had a good idea.

He extended a hand, and Merle looked at it with a wary face.

The Governor was still smiling.

“You're gonna have to trust me a little more, that's all.”

Merle hesitated, throat tightening for whatever reason.

He took the Governor's hand, though.

88

“How's that fit yer?”

“Yeah. Pretty good.”

Merle moved his arm experimentally.

The prosthetic was kinda crude and makeshift, and the flesh was still raw and tenderer than he'd like to admit, but it was better than nothing.

The guy called Milton looked pleased with himself too. 

“Thanks,” Merle heard himself add, and the guy called Milton's smile extended.

The Governor looked even happier.

“Lookin' good,” and he patted Merle's shoulder, as if he might have been proud. Or something strange like that.

There were a few of those instances, not that Merle was keeping count. Not at all.

But he did remember a weird amount of them, and the way the Governor's fingers would spread a welcomed heat on his shoulder or his back.

Another heat would often catch at Merle's face when that happened, like a _goddman blush_ , and then in other places too...

But damn that shit was embarrassing. Like he was so goddamn touch-starved or something.

_Pathetic._

“I'm proud of you,” the Governor actually said one time, and Merle felt himself grinning the rest of the day, like a real dumbass.

He couldn't help it.

Sometimes he just focused on trashing walkers in the pits with his bladed hand. Or antagonising Milton and Martinez, and anyone else who thought he might have 'gone soft' or some shit like that. 

The arena fights were fun too, but the buzz of the crowd meant very little.

He always ended up hoping the Governor would notice, whenever he'd pinned Martinez, or finished off a toothless walker. 

The Governor did notice sometimes, and he'd smile at him as if he knew Merle better than anyone.

Then Merle was grinning like a dumbass again. 

88

The Governor cornered him after an arena fight.

Nobody else was around, and Merle's back met the wall with an abruptness that made him gasp in more than just pain. 

He figured it was just a 'lesson', though.

Something designed to keep him in line, because nobody else in Woodbury knew how to do it.

It must have been, because anything else would have been gross and unnatural between them.

Yeah, just a lesson. Even as slick flesh was slamming into him, and shit it _felt so good._

Even as his head was cracking back against the wall and he was seeing too many blurry stars for a few seconds.

He still noticed the Governor's smile, though;

“...heh, you like that?”

_Just a lesson._

_"...y-yeah..."_

Even as he was nodding, all incoherent and dazed. Hips snapping brutally up, and slender fingers clutching his throat too tightly, making him want to sob with the claustrophobic gap that kept disappearing too rapidly between them.

“...you're so good at pleasing me, Merle...”

 _Oh fuck_...

Still _just a lesson._

Even as his legs were buckling, but arms were becoming tender around his body, offering him a reprieve he didn't realise he wanted _oh so_ _badly_.

“...that's a good boy,” the Governor told him.

_Just a lesson._

“...thanks, Gov'nor...”

He sat alone on the floor for a while after that, wondering what the hell had just happened.

It was like the world had shifted, and there was blood threading his throat and around his head, and everything felt very sore.

Martinez found him.

“You okay?” he looked concerned.

Merle hated himself, even as he sneered.

“Oh yeah. I'm great.”

88

Sometimes he dreamt he was still on the roof top.

His skin was on fire and he was dying again, with at least a thousand regrets scrambling whatever was left of his mind.

Then he'd wake up and there would be softer light streaming through an unusually clean window onto the bed. The shape of a body was close enough upon it, but not so close that Merle would dare to touch it.

That wasn't for him to decide.

“You're a good boy, aren't you?” the Governor was already awake, anyway.

Merle nodded, and his smile was careful, because this was still another lesson, wasn't it?

The Governor was always so rough and relentless, even in the early morning, but Merle was learning to endure it.

"...my good boy," the Governor reiterated, as if to prove the point. His weight pressed harder atop a sweat-beaded back for a few moments.

Merle trembled and sunk into the mattress with an aching groan.

His skin was on fire again, but he smiled anyway. 

Someday he figured he might even be good enough for hell.

88

88


	2. Pet The Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milton tries and sometimes fails to mind his own business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Governor/Merle. Governor/Merle/Martinez. vague Milton/Merle?? maybe.  
> TW: implied sexual abuse. Homophobic and racial slurs, because Merle.  
> Just wanted to attempt Milton pov.

Part 2: Pet The Dog

**

**

Milton wasn't the kind of guy who enjoyed getting involved in things. In fact he was generally the kind of guy who enjoyed avoiding them.

He was never curious about the commotion that happened on a rowdy Woodbury night, nor did he wonder too much about why Merle Dixon sometimes staggered out the Governor's sleeping quarters in the earliest hours of the morning.

That wasn't his business, and to be frank, he could do without the mental images.

Sometimes Merle would stagger into the lab too, and loiter around as if he was actually interested in what Milton was doing.

“Don't you have anything better to do?” Milton usually asked.

“Nope,” Merle always replied.

And he'd poke at duct taped armour and sneer at reams of notes. Lean close enough on a desktop for Milton to smell the whiskey on his breath and see the bruises on his arms. And the fresher ones that dappled an exposed collarbone.

But that was never surprising. Merle was a scrappy old dog.

“Get your elbows off the table,” Milton complained, and Merle grinned like a delinquent child, but moved away.

He usually did as he was told these days.

“Ah, jus' playin with yer,” he said.

Sometimes Milton distracted him with a book or two. Dryly suggested that he could use the anatomy section as a substitute for porn. And sometimes it was actually kind of okay, having Dixon just sitting in the background, offering an occasional and crude commentary. A companion to whatever Milton was agonising over in the early hours (usually scrawling something in a notebook, or literally picking the brain of a decapitated Biter).

“Kinda looks like you, Milty. Jus' better lookin'.”

“Thanks for your invaluable input as always, Dixon,” and sometimes Milton smiled, too.

Other times he just gritted his teeth and despaired at cigarette smoke snaking past his nose, wondering who'd been irresponsible enough to let the dog out this time.

Of course he didn't really have to wonder at all, because it was always the Governor.

Milton had gotten used to seeing the invisible leash pulling at Merle, whenever Blake appeared.

The way he fell back; sneer still obnoxious, but noticeably warier. His body flinching; so _minutely_ , but enough for Milton to notice, whenever Blake's tone got too sharp in his direction. The way he simply _shut up_.

Yeah, Merle was a pretty well trained dog at this point.

“Here ya go, Milty,” he shoved a particularly fresh Biter head on the table, and then looked at Milton as if he was expecting some kind of reward.

Milton gestured to the other operating table.

“Thanks. Could you pass me that knife, please?”

And Merle nodded and fetched it.

Who said you couldn't teach an old dog some new tricks, anyway?

*

*

Merle seemed to know a fair few tricks. One of them was being an annoying redneck bastard.

The other, contrarily, was being the only person able to prise Milton out of his lab and endless research.

Coax him into joining Woodbury's version of the 'living' once in a while.

It wasn't that Milton enjoyed Merle's _particular_ type of company (not much at all, really), but it was always interesting, if nothing else.

Maybe that's what it was. _Boredom_. Milton was finally bored of his own company, and suddenly Merle Dixon was more appealing in pretty evening sunshine. His rough-round-the-edges features and dumb but contagious grin somehow combining to create something Milton almost liked.

Sometimes.

Merle always lounged with the likes of Martinez and Shumpert. Chewing gum and occasionally looking over at Milton, as if he was supposed to be enjoying himself too. Or even more hilariously, _belonged_ there.

Milton just scratched at the prickly heat that had caught his neck. Wished he was anywhere else.

“You worried about him?” Merle asked, on one those too-hot lazier days.

His smirk was tighter though, and his glance in Blake's direction unusually subtle.

Milton's throat closed up, even as he shook his head.

“Don't know what you're talking about, Dixon.”

It was supposed to be easier to play ignorance, but damn it if Milton hadn't made his 'nerd' card known from the very beginning.

And Merle knew him too well for that now, anyway.

“You know what I mean, Milty.”

“I don't,” Milton pursed his lips. He'd always been a bad liar as well.

“Someday he might jus' decide to kill us all,” Merle said, as if he was considering something much less horrific.

Milton pretended he wasn't curious, or that he kind of agreed. Or anything else stupid like that.

Stupid to risk treason (was that what it was?), and who could trust Merle Dixon, anyway? Right hand (haha) brawn and guard dog to the Governor.

Did that make Milton the brains? Together a matching set, to flank either side of their 'noble' Woodbury leader?

But Milton hadn't signed up to be a henchman.

He watched as Merle leaned back in the grass; and then noticed the finger-shaped bruising, highlighted by the evening sun, across his neckline. Nothing to do with a recent arena fight, nor a close shave with a Biter.

Milton knew _that_.

He supposed Merle hadn't signed up for that, either.

But that wasn't any of Milton's business.

**

**

“You gonna come by 'n cheer for me tonight?”

Milton wasn't sure why Merle still bothered asking him. It was always the same response. Didn't he get bored?

Milton shook his head, adjusting the buckling on the arm attachment. “Far too busy for that nonsense.”

“Aw. You're no fun.”

“I'm sure you'll survive without my support.”

“Guess I will,” Merle sneered, and turned his gaze back to the book he'd been reading.

Oh but that had been surprising, though. Still was, even if Milton had seen him in Woodbury's library a few times now; all solitary and quiet.

An unusual image, significantly burned into his brain, for whatever reason.

It wasn't that Milton usually succumbed to stereotyping, but Merle hadn't done himself any favours on first impressions.

Fighting and swearing up a storm, even with a recently cauterised stump of a hand. He'd have taken on Blake and then some, if he hadn't passed out first due to all the blood loss.

Milton sometimes smiled thinking about it, these days.

Maybe the world going to shit had forced him down a shady path to insanity (well, hadn't everyone at least peeked down that path at this point?), but he couldn't help a touch of reluctant admiration.

Whether it was resilience or just plain old stupidity, hard to tell. But he sometimes wished he had a small dose of whatever Dixon was packing.

And sometimes being the hammer in the toolbox looked like it might be far more fun.

“This one's pretty good so far,” Merle said, and slammed the book shut. “Did you read it?”

“I've read them all. Three times over at this point.”

Merle smirked. “Dork.”

Milton fastened the last buckle on his arm with a sharper tug. He offered a grim smile.

“Good luck then, I suppose. Kick some Biter ass, and all that other...stuff.”

Merle drew his arm back with a broader grin.

“Thanks, darlin'.”

He took the book with him.

Maybe this dog didn't learn new tricks at all, and Milton was just learning about some of his old ones.

**

**

He must've already been walking down that insanity path, or whatever it was, because besides enjoying Merle's company (sometimes, only sometimes), he also found himself getting concerned for the dumb dog.

That was unprecedented. And annoying.

Even more annoying, he'd have been saved the trouble of such an annoying feeling if he'd only knocked on the Governor's door first that morning.

“ _Shit_...” said Martinez, and pulled his pants up through another string of curses.

“I-I...sorry...” Milton said.

He would also have been saved the trouble of seeing parts of Merle, Blake and Martinez that were only fit for x-rated movies.

_Jesus, but why hadn't he knocked first?_

“What's the problem?” Blake said, as if he'd been expecting him.

His hands fell away from hips, and Merle slumped to the ground with a thunk and a groan.

His head rolled to the side, and he looked up at Milton through dazed and glittering eyes. Grinning as if he hadn't just been caught impaled between two men with his literal pants down.

“Well?” said Blake, and buckled himself up in a quick motion. “We running out of tea, or something?”

He exchanged a smirk with Martinez.

Milton cleared his throat.

“...er. We-we might have made some progress...with one of the Biter's responses to the audio recognition tests...”

Milton heard himself talking and _talking_ , on some weird and listless autopilot.

Only because it was easier to rattle off numbers and statistics, rather than pay much attention to the blood-dotted floor, trailing up to meet Merle's panting body.

“Very interesting,” Blake said, and didn't look very interested at all.

He pointed a booted toe in Merle's direction.

“You can stay here, Dixon.”

Milton watched the way Merle turned, far too slowly, onto his side. Pulling his pants up with a single and uncoordinated hand. His grin was more like a grimace when Milton looked at it for too long.

“...Milty ain't joinin' the party...?” and his voice sounded sore, like his throat was grinding against rusted nails.

Blake smiled and bent down to him. Then tilted his chin up with a precise finger.

“Maybe later. Think you've had enough fun for this morning, don't you?”

Merle nodded automatically. “...okay.”

Blake's poise lingered, fingers moving and pinching at jawline, before tipping Merle's head up a little more.

“That's a good boy.”

It was enough time for Merle's grin to extend, and Milton saw the sweat beading his throat, as he swallowed unevenly.

Then Blake released him.

“Shall we head to the lab, then?”

It took Milton a long moment to realise Blake was talking to him again.

Too busy watching fingers curling against a palm on the floor, mirroring his own.

He pulled his eyes away long enough to practise a feeble smile in Blake's direction.

“Yes, of course. Do you mind if I...? I'll be along in just a minute.”

He hoped the stammer hadn't given anything away. But Blake's smile was strange, his eyes darting between Milton and Merle as if he knew very well.

“Don't be long, then.”

Then Blake left the room, but the door hung ajar. Martinez hung back with it. A reluctant frown over his shoulder.

He avoided looking at the floor.

“Weren't planned,” he said. “I didn't even know the Governor swung that way.”

Milton unclenched his fists. His palms had been hurting for a minute, there.

“...I knew.”

He knelt down. Tentatively though, because even half-conscious, Merle looked like he might bite.

“...I just didn't know it got this rough.”

“He likes it that way,” Martinez said. But he still hesitated, and turned round a bit more. “...is he okay?”

“...screw you, Brownie..” Merle said.

Martinez snorted.

“Oh, he's just _fine_.”

The door clipped shut, and then Milton and Merle were finally alone.

A very sad little set up, to be sure. And Milton was already having second thoughts.

It wasn't his business.

Merle slid a bloodshot gaze to look at him.

“...this must be funny for you...”

Then he started coughing, and something telling drooled out of his mouth. His lips were as red as his eyes, and Milton reached down and wiped them without a second thought.

“..fag,” Merle croaked.

Milton rolled his eyes.

“Can you stand up at all?”

“Sure, dummy...”

Merle gathered himself up and onto his knees. It was an admiral effort (Milton didn't expect anything less), but then a groan, as he slid back down again.

“....uh. Just kinda sore...damn it...”

“It's okay,” Milton told him.

He looped an arm around a shoulder, and began hauling him up.

The warmth spread across his chest as Merle leaned heavily into it, and then started to laugh. A poor decision, as it was soon devolving into another coughing fit.

“It's okay,” Milton repeated, but more to himself this time.

It wasn't his business, but that didn't mean he couldn't help. And that _was_ okay.

They shambled to the bed, where Merle promptly collapsed onto his stomach. He turned his head to look at Milton, mouth moving a more considered line with it.

“I don't mind it, y'know. Feels _good._..bein' wanted 'n shit.”

His mutilated arm stretched out a bit, as if he might want to clutch at Milton's own hand. Idiot.

But Milton smiled weakly.

“Oh, I'm sure it does.”

He raised his hand, and imagined closing the gap between them. Curving it around the rugged edge of a jawline. But not because he wanted to.

And definitely not because he might have craved some of that ' _bein' wanted and shit'_ too.

“You _are_ a fag, ain't you?” Merle sounded amused. But his gaze was much heavier, like he might be falling asleep.

“I'm not,” Milton said.

But he still debated leaning in, if only for a moment. Something slow and tender, soft and gentle...

He wondered if Merle would've preferred that sort of thing.

“You gonna be okay?” he sighed instead.

Merle nodded, and might have looked disappointed about it. “...yeah.”

He twisted his head back toward the pillow, nuzzling into it like the dumbass dog he was so used to playing.

Then he closed his eyes.

“...thanks, darlin'.”

Milton dithered for some unproductive seconds, hand _still_ wavering, but his resolution crumbling with it.

Merle didn't notice. Already dozing off into some blissful and ignorant sleep, drooling all over the pillow.

Milton supposed it was better like that.

“You're welcome,” he said, and stretched his hand out the rest of the way.

He settled for an awkward pat on the head. It seemed more appropriate.

And Merle was a pretty well trained dog, after all.

**


End file.
